We broke the house

You wrote me from a book of disorder.

You stole an identity

painted my name with a tattered brush

long, old, and worn.

Paint thrown thick and black

onto walls, onto paper,

onto stone, brick, and a cold house

yellow wallpaper no longer kind, gentle

the place that you longed for

torn, ripped, decayed and unloved.

The paint drips onto your shoes

as you remember where the first cracks appeared.

But you don't remember how.

Or what.

Except, the hate you have of me.

Grown, kept, nourished

by desperation.

That poison
My dear, it is called addiction.

You cannot resist to taste and paste

my name like lyrics to explain your hate.

To everything purple and green, yellow and red,

you compare me to everything you love and dread.

For all to see and share and learn

the evil you see

the satisfaction you feed

desperate

to help support your sadness as it burns.

Hungry child weeps.

Away with the fairies

 I see shadows in the distance,

They follow me.

Tired memories polluted with drink and darkness.

A mist ventures from shadow to shadow,

it falls and rises

As poison presses deeper into the veins of willow trees.

A smile that lingers on the lips of a fairy

hides and sings

“Dance, dance with me.”

Spiders fall from dead leaves

Onto ground scattered with thorns and blood.

The naked feet of a traveller

Blisters with hate

As the song of the hopeless

drifts further into the forest.